Hate
by Kitsanken
Summary: He hated himself, he hated the world...he hated so much that he hated to hate and he couldn’t forgive himself to not giving up the hatred that had set him on this very path.


Trigun Fanfic

_Trigun © Yasuhiro Nightow * Shonen Gaho-sha * Tokuma Shoten * JVC * Pioneer Entertainment (USA) Inc._

_The following fanfiction was written by me (Chiruken) and is intended for the sole purpose of shared entertainment and not intended for publication or sale.___

**--_Hate_—**

By Chiruken

**_*~*One-Shot*~* _**

****~****

    Sand…endless iles of the yellow, white, beige stuff.  Tiny grains working their way passed his boots, through his socks and between his toes.  Grit blowing with every little huff of wind, throwing it into his face, stinging his eyes, coating his lips.  The dusty residue working its way through his teeth, working against his tongue, trying to claw its way down his throat.  Sand in his hair, in his nose and mouth, embedded in his clothes.  He wore it almost as a second skin, it hugged him so close.  The gritty powder caked on his skin like some grotesque makeup, hiding his features, concealing his identity, until even he wasn't certain who he was anymore.  Sand was everywhere and he hated it.

    He hated sand.  He hated everything about it…the colour, the texture, the taste…everything.  Everywhere he looked it was always the same.  Sand.  Sand and rocks.  He looked forward to the rocks when they'd pop up seemingly out of nowhere to break the monotony of the endless sea of sand stretching towards the horizon in every direction he chose to look in.  Rocks, slightly darker lumps dotting the landscape, grey, brown, black.  They were just as ugly as the sand, but different all the same.  They rose up like grotesque lumps of flotsam from the sand, reaching pathetically towards the sky as if in supplication.

    He hated rocks.  He hated how needy they appeared as they sat in piles, towering above the sand they sprouted from.  He hated the nondescript colours, the bland and dreary hues.  Every rock was the same.  The size, the colour and the texture.  All the same.  Rocks and sand.  He hated them both.  Only the wind created a break to the ugliness to the desert world he traveled through.  The wind, blowing constantly, a companion for every step of the way.  Blowing with the force of a gale at times, shifting the sand, moving the rocks, altering the terrain beyond recognition.  Blowing with the gentleness of a lover's caress, chasing away the heat of the day, drying the sweat that formed from the exertion needed to keep walking through knee high drifts of sand only to find more sand stretching out before him.  The wind kicked up great eddying whorls of sand, throwing it in his face, stinging grit entering his eyes, blinding him, coating his mouth, blasting him with the millions of tiny, miniscule needles of each grain of sand.

    He hated the wind.  The wind that kicked up sand and grit, rolled the smaller of the rocks along, blocking his path, whipping his filthy clothes about his weary body as he trudged endlessly through the never-ending sand with only the suns above to keep him company.  The suns, beating down on his head, trying to claw its way passed his hair and skull in a constant battle to melt through the top of his head straight down to the soles of his feet.  Glaring off the white, white sand, sparkling in a dazzling array of non-colour, blinding him, making his eyes water from the painful brightness of the white, white sand and the hot, hot suns.  Sucking what little moisture remained in his body as he stumbled through the iles upon iles of sand and rocks, the wind whipping the granules up into his face, stinging, burning, rubbing him raw as the suns continued to beat at him relentlessly.

    He hated the suns.  Hot, relentless, unsympathetic to his plight as he continued to stumble over dune after dune in the endless desert beneath their tormenting rays as they floated in the sky so blue that it made him think of cool, wet places with water stretching towards the horizon, tempting him, teasing him, tormenting him with the impossibility of it all.  Blue, soft, soothing and cool, it stretched above him, leading him ever onward, through the iles of endless sand and rocks with the wind blasting against him and the suns beating down on him.  Teasing him, taunting him, making him long to touch the coolness stretched out above him, to taste it, to immerse himself in it.

    He hated the sky.  The sky with its promise of rest and cool, to be clean and free of the sand clinging to his body and coating his mouth.  So blue it hurt the eyes and made his mouth water with thoughts of cool, clear liquid splashing against his lips, rolling over his tongue, sliding down his throat.  Cool, clear, wet.  Water.  What he wouldn't give to have water to wash away the grit and grime, the sweat and dirt, to cool his overheated body and bring relief from the relentless barrage of heat the suns threw at him.  Sand, rocks, wind, suns and sky…a never-ending cycle of forlorn hopelessness accompanying him on his trek over the same dreary terrain, weariness weighing down his feet, making him stumble and stagger as his mind focused on that which he didn't have.  Water.  Relief from the thirst closing in on him, parching his throat, making it feel as if he were made of sand as his lips dried and cracked under the onslaught of the wind and grit, the heat and glare.

    Ahead, through the dunes, beneath the sky, built upon rocks, basking in the suns, somewhere ahead there was water.  Water and food.  Water, food and destiny.  He hated his destiny.  It chased him as he pursued it, their paths crisscrossing through the endless desert stretching towards the horizons before him, behind him, to either side of him.  Destiny and the hate that followed him.  He was destined to hate and hate was destined to find him.  He couldn't outrun it, he couldn't hide from it.  There was nowhere to hide out amongst the sand and rocks, the wind screaming out his name, his purpose, what he was, who he was.  The suns exposed him, showed him for what he was, hiding nothing, revealing everything.  The sky, so blue and endless stretching above him, laughed at him and his pathetic attempts to continue, to survive, to go on and meet his destiny head on as it followed him everywhere he went.

    He stopped and he stared and he wondered as he gazed sightlessly out over the stretching iles of dunes and sand and rocks and never-ending heat and blowing wind.  What the hell was he doing traipsing through the desert, always thirsty, always moving, as rootless as the scraggly tufts of tumble weeds he saw occasionally when he passed closer by civilization?  What was he doing?  Why did he continue on like this, tormenting himself, torturing his body, killing himself slowly with each agonizing step as he moved forward against the restraints of the wind and the clinging sand as it reached up with grave-like fingers to clutch at his feet and drag him down to the hot, hot white sand beneath him and hold him there as the suns leeched out every last drop of moisture from his agonized and tortured body, the unsympathetic blue of the sky overhead gazing down on him coldly as he lay waiting for death to claim him?  Why did he do this to himself time and time again?  Was the destiny awaiting him at the end of his journey worth more than his own life?

    The answer was simple.  Yes.  It was worth every agonizing step, every moment he spent parched and aching beneath the relentless wind, the hateful suns and the coldness of the blue, blue sky.  His destiny was intrinsically entwined with every living being on the entire planet and if he allowed himself to fall, to fail, to wither beneath the suns out amidst the endless dunes stretching outwards, taunting him each and every step of the way, the rocks sprouting up, tripping him, cutting him, bruising him, then not only his own story would end, but the stories of every person who made this God forsaken planet their home would end as well.  He lived because he must.  He had no hope, all his hopes and dreams had died eons before, long before many of the rocks had been lifted from their sandy cradles to dot the nondescript landscape.  He continued on because to do otherwise would be to give up and allow countless others to suffer needlessly as he himself suffered.  He endured the pain and the sorrow and the thirst so that others wouldn't have to.  He would continue on his set path until he was no longer needed and then, and only then, would he allow himself to fall and let the sand drift over him and the rocks conceal him and the suns to bleach his bones beneath the cold beauty of the endless expanse of blue sky stretching out above him farther than the eye could possibly see.  But until the danger was eliminated, until peace reigned free throughout the world, until hope and destiny were entwined and not singular entities, until then he would continue to walk, trudging endlessly through the sand and dunes and rocks and wind and feel the suns beating down against him drawing every last drop of moisture from his already parched and thirsting body.  He would move forward, seeking his destiny and endure the pains of his body and the agony of his soul and embrace the hatred and the fear and continue on because he didn't know any other way to live.

    His was a thankless mission.  He hated that.  He hated moving constantly from town to town, city to city, crawling through the desert, dreaming endless dreams of water and rest and peace and blessed coolness.  He longed for rest.  He longed for a chance to stop and rest and find peace and love and serenity and he longed for it with every fiber of his weary being, his ancient soul old before its time and his mind filled with the knowledge that his time was far from being over.  Time meant nothing for one such as him.  Time wasn't against him, not in the sense that most people thought of it.  His worst enemy wasn't time itself, but the results of time.  He moved through the world untouched by the ravages of time, constant, unchanging, eternal in his misery, but the world itself changed without mercy and without apology, moving on, leaving dust and bones and abandoned husks where once life thrived and people laughed and children played and they lived their lives and felt joy and then they died, their time having run out, their life-spark having been snuffed out, never to be relit.  Their stories ended permanently, never to be continued as often happened in story books and fairytales told to children at night when they were tucked into their snug beds.

    He hated the fairytales told to appease the hate and fear and the uncertainties.  Falsehoods told to gloss over the ugliness of reality, telling of worlds where happiness and peace and love existed and no hate or crime or fear rose beside them.  Fairytales, stories of warped reality, lies told to soften the harshness of the world surrounding them, killing them, slowly sucking their life away until nothing was left, not even hope or dreams or the promise of something better because the stories told beneath the cool light of the moons were nothing but lies.  Where was the goodness and joy the stories told of?  Where were the magical kingdoms of lush green forests and impossibly cheerful creatures frolicking without a care in the world?  It didn't exist and would never exist and couldn't exist, not in the harsh reality in which they lived and by telling the lies they set the children up for devastating depressing failure as they discovered that their parents had lied to them and the world wasn't a good place and peace and love and happiness didn't exist.  Only the endless toil and the suns and the sand and the wind and nothing more but hate and destiny and so much misery that their spirits withered and died leaving nothing but thankless, godless husks with no dreams left to dream.

    Dreams, wispy, willowy, impossibly sweet and unattainable dreams, never to be reached always sought after and never found.  Thirst and hunger and heat and pain were reality.  There was no happy ever after at the end of their miserable lives.  There was no hope for him and his endless journey through the wastelands of desert and sand and rocks.  The wind and the suns were his only companions, his lovers, his friends, his enemies.  Every living thing was tied to him and he was tied to them and yet they were separate, never destined to meet yet destined to be together in their separateness.  Logic had no place in his world of pain and misery and thirst and hunger and he was so thoroughly sick of it, of always being alone and never with someone, having no one to talk to, to whisper to, to tell his hopes, his dreams, his pains, his nightmares.  He was alone, endlessly, eternally alone, and always, always alone.

    He hated being alone.  His thoughts, his fanciful dreams, his goals, his destiny…they were his only constant companions as he traveled over the never-ending dunes and cried bitter tears of loneliness though no tears would come to his dry and aching eyes as the wind blew grit and sand against his face, the suns draining every last drop of his energy.  He wept silently, dryly, constantly, begging for an end, yet knowing that no end would come.  Death didn't want him.  Life didn't want him.  He was an outcast, accepted by none, wanted by all, eternally torn between the struggles of life and death, sand and rock, wind and suns.  And still he continued on, relentlessly seeking his destiny as it chased him through the endless deserts that made up the ugly world in which he traveled.

    Destiny, in all its wonders and horrors would not leave him be and he hated it.  He'd created his own destiny by his own actions, yet it had also created him and dictated his actions.  Fate had decreed that he could do nothing more than follow the path set out for him in ages long passed and follow it until the end of his journey, yet his journey would never end and his path would continue and he would never find the rest he longed for with every last breath he took.  He wanted to die, he wanted to live!  He wanted an end to his misery and the sacrifices he was forced to make and the pain he was forced to endure and the hatred he was forced to feel and continue on and on until he wanted nothing more than to lie down in the sand and let it drift over him, cover him, embrace him.

    He longed to feel the comforting embrace of a caring and loving companion, yet all he had was the sand and the wind and the suns and the sky and all of it was cold comfort to him and his yearnings for love and peace and he hated being so needy and knowing that there was no one left who could or would take him in and comfort him and tell him that all would be well even though he knew it would be a lie he still wanted to hear it…needed to hear it…and he would never hear it because though the wind may scream and wail it couldn't talk and if it did it would merely whisper hateful truths in his ears and tell him that this is the choice he made and he had no right complaining.

    When he was alone, as he was always alone, he would hear whispers in his mind of days long gone and people long dead telling him secrets best left unheard and he would cover his ears and scream for them to leave him alone but the ghosts of his past would taunt him, their ghostly voices whispering insidious truths as he screamed and screamed until he was hoarse and still they would constantly tell him what he didn't want to hear.  Phantoms, nothing more, mere memories of those long gone, those who had left him to endure the pain of living while they had all sought eternal rest in death.  They whispered, their hissing voices telling him everything, telling him nothing and it was slowly driving him mad from the impossibility of it all as he continued to move forward through the world that had become his prison.  He was captive, held in the world, imprisoned by his destiny, and he hated it.  He hated knowing that it had been his choice, that he had created this hell that he was currently enduring.  His actions created his never-ending journey through the hot, white sand, beneath the hot, glaring suns with the hot, harsh wind blasting him with each and every stumbling step he took, baking him, cooking him, whipping him, flailing him as he endured his punishment for crimes long forgotten by history and people and only he remembered and the ghosts haunting him and whispering the truths in his ears as he continued to seek atonement for the crimes of his past.

    For every life he'd ended, for every drop of blood he'd caused to fall, for every moment of misery he forced upon others, he was sentenced to relive it all as he sought a way to make amends as he trudged endlessly knowing that there was never going to be an end to his misery.  He created his own destiny, he caused the fall, he killed the people, he tormented the souls and until he could seek penance for his horrible, horrible crimes he could never, ever find peace and follow after those who had fled the world of the living and sought everlasting peace and contentment.  He wandered aimlessly, with a goal, constantly moving, seeking out other lost souls in an effort to save them from the same fate he was now sentenced to endure and he was so alone through it all because no one should be forced to endure as he was enduring and that was also his punishment for the crimes he'd committed and there would never be an end to it until he could find a way to make up for all that he'd done.

    His path had been set, countless ages before, while his body burned in agony, his mind splintered in despair, and his soul screamed in torment.  He'd been made to realize what he'd done, how he'd done it, and all that was left was why and he didn't have an answer and he would never have an answer, not one good enough to justify all that he'd done and he knew that he could never find the answers he was seeking until he'd atoned for all the terrible, terrible things he'd done and the suffering he'd caused and the murders he'd committed.  There was no one to turn to, no one to seek guidance from, the only one he could ask would not give him the answer and told him to seek his own path and here he was staggering, stumbling, trudging through the endless sea of sand and dunes and rocks with the wind screaming in his ears and the suns beating against him and the sky stretching above him and still he sought the path he needed to find a way to put his soul to rest and the souls of the others whose life-sparks he'd snuffed oh so callously all those years ago, in a time long before and so recent as to appear in his mind as being yesterday.

    He'd killed.  He'd tormented.  He'd done so many, many terrible things and still there were a few who found it in their hearts to forgive him and set him on this path he now followed to seek out his destiny while it chased him down, hunted him, followed him, led him around the world of endless waste and death and sand.  He left them because if he stayed he would have destroyed them just as he destroyed everything else he'd touched and he didn't want to cause more pain because he knew that his soul was already condemned and to add more death and misery to it would be to create more agonizing torment to his already tortured being and so he had left and set out on his journey and now he longed to have them by his side if even only to offer a few moments of comfort to his battered heart and mind though he knew he was far beyond salvation and had to work towards finding it again.

    And still he burned from the pain, from the branding, from the knowledge that what he'd done was too terrible, too horrible, too unforgivable to ever ask for peace and love and comfort and forgiveness and still he longed for it with every last shred of his soul.  He hurt and he burned and he needed the comfort of knowing that he was following the right path, the just path, the path that would lead to the salvation he sought and the peace that would follow and the forgiveness that he knew he didn't deserve, yet still, all the same, he longed for it and needed it and knew that he would always, always seek it in every face he saw, every voice he heard, every life he saved.

    His sentence was fair and just, his punishment only what he deserved, he knew this, he understood this, he believed this, yet still he longed for another way to seek the forgiveness for the crimes he'd committed and the atrocities he'd instigated and the pain and suffering he'd brought down to the world through which he traveled as he carried out his self-imposed sentence.  He was a prisoner of his conscience, his tormented soul, his aching heart.  And still he questioned if this was the correct path.  Was he doing the right thing, even now, after all this time, after all the pain and suffering he'd endured, was he following the right path to his atonement?  Could he find redemption through the endless waves of sand and the cruel blue of the sky and the biting sting of the wind?  Could he find the way to correct the wrongs he'd committed in his folly so many, many years before?

    For every life he caused to end, he committed himself to a year of torment.  For every crime he committed under his misguided belief that he was being fair and just and that his way was the right way and that he was creating a better world, for each and every atrocity he'd ever caused or ordered or instigated or ignored and allowed to happen, he added another year to his self-imposed sentence.  For every life destroyed, for every town, city, settlement he'd emptied and torn apart without a care to the consequences, he added another year to his sentence.  He could never live long enough to make amends and there was no one left to judge him and he could only judge himself and when he did he found himself lacking and so, he added another year for each time he doubted himself and his set path.

    His life had become meaningless and in that meaninglessness he'd found purpose.  Through that purpose he intended to atone for every crime he'd ever committed, had committed, or thought of committing.  He sought out his destiny and he followed his destiny and he allowed his destiny to chase him, to rule him, to lead him ever onward through the endless years and the sand and the wind and beneath the blue, blue sky with the hot, hot suns and the never-ending thirst and pain and agony of loneliness.

    And still he hated.  He hated himself, he hated the world, he hated the sand and the wind and the suns and the rocks and the sky and he hated so much that he hated to hate and he couldn't forgive himself to not giving up the hatred that had set him on this very path.  He hated the people who he'd hated before and he hated the way they were so forgiving of crimes they weren't aware of being committed and he hated the way that his heart ached every time he came across the emptied husks of the cities and towns, the ruins he'd created in the past and could never, ever fill again with life and love and laughter and he hated himself even more for even caring.  He hated that he cared and he hated that he hated and he hated the fact that no matter how much time passed that he could never completely let go of the hatred that had once consumed him and driven him and set him up for his own downfall.

    And, above all…more than anything else…more than the suns and the sand and the rocks and the sky and the wind and the people and his past…more than all of it combined…he hated his brother.  He hated his brother because his brother had loved him so much that he'd given up everything to show him just what his hate had wrought upon the world in which they lived and he'd shown him the pain and suffering and the sorrow and all the hate that he'd created and for that he hated his brother more than anything.  And he loved him.  He loved him because he hated him and he knew it made no sense but he was beyond caring if he was logical or illogical because anyone who would care was long gone, dead, withered and turned to dust beneath the endless, hateful sand that covered the world he'd tried his damnedest to recreate and now that he knew just how much his brother had loved him he loved him even more and hated him even more and he longed to see him again but knew that he couldn't, not until he'd purged every last hint of hatred from his hateful being.  He hated his brother for allowing him to live, to remember, to know that all that he'd done was for nothing and had caused more harm than good and had only ended up hurting himself in the process.  He hated his brother for being the stronger of the two, for being so full of love that he couldn't hate him even though he'd given him every reason to hate him and even tried to make him hate him, yet he still loved him, unconditionally and eternally and through that endless, bounteous love he'd shown him what true pain and suffering could be.

    He loved his brother…he loved him…he loved…he…he wanted to see him again, to be by his side, to be with him, to hear him, to hold him and talk to him and tell him how very, very sorry he was and how much he loved him and he knew that he could never do any of it because his brother loved him too much and would never turn him away and he knew that he should hate him, but he didn't.  His brother was out in the world, somewhere, somewhere far, far from him, watching him, listening to him, seeing him and always, always loving him and he knew that if he called he would come and hold him and tell him that he loved him and that he would always, always love him and he knew that he couldn't do that because he wasn't worthy of his brother's love.  He loved him too much to let him love him and for that he would endure the endless loneliness and long for his brother to be by his side but he would never allow it because he knew that his hatred would consume him and destroy him and the love he felt towards him and he couldn't ever allow that to happen because he loved his brother too much to taint him with the ugliness in his soul.

    His staggering steps halted as he topped yet another dune in the endless sea of dunes and he stood staring down at the town stretching before him, the people moving about as they went about their daily chores, oblivious to the fact that destiny and fate had chosen them to be next on his endless search for atonement and forgiveness and, like so many others before them, they wouldn't know that the stranger walking amongst them was a creature to be feared, hated, shunned, cast out and they would welcome him with open arms, and nurture him, feed him, give him water, give him a bed and they would never know the horrible, terrible, awful truth behind his need to constantly, endless, always keep moving and when he left the small, pathetic, hopeless, and beautiful town, he would leave behind another piece of himself as he once again carried on with his sentence for crimes committed long before.

    He stepped forward, steps slow and halting, stumbling and staggering, as he made his way slowly, painfully, across the last short distance separating the expanse of dunes and sand and desert from the oasis offered by the small, barren town before him with its sign swaying in the constant barrage of wind and grit and the wood so weathered that the words were nearly impossible to read yet still, squinting against the glare of the suns hanging in the blue, blue sky above he could make out the faded letters and he smiled, his cracked and dry lips curving upwards and a hoarse, wheezing laugh working its way up his dry, parched throat as he read the name of the town spread out before him with the people stopping to stare as they listened to his rusty laughter as he stood beneath the swaying sign, his clothes ragged and torn, filthy and sweat stained and he laughed and laughed and tears flowed down his cheeks, trickling through the sand and grime and grit and he shook and he read the name again as the people moved away and some came closer and he couldn't stop laughing at the irony of it all.  Before him, written in faded, weathered, letters, set upon a rickety, cracked and beaten board, was one word, one little, tiny word, four letters that defined all that he was and all the would ever be and reminded him of lost hopes and dreams and love and hate and tore through him with the force of bullets entering his body and burning him with the brand of irony that he was gazing at.  He stared and he shook and he wept bitter tears of longing and hate and love and his lips formed the syllables as his rusty voice worked to force the word passed his lips as the tears continued to flow and the suns beat down on him and the wind whipped his tattered clothing around him and the people approached him cautiously.  "Eden…" He finally whispered before his legs finally gave out and he sat hard on the ground, the sand gritty beneath his palms as he continued to stare up at the ugly, beautiful sign and laughed and cried and trembled with the horrible, horrible irony of it all.  Destiny, in all its wondrous and horrific tactless humor, had led him to what he sought the most and all that awaited him was more pain and suffering and hate and fear and oh God how he wanted his brother to be with him now to hold him and comfort him and tell him that it was all a bad dream and that once he awakened it would all go away and everything would be normal again.  He'd wanted his brother to be with him when he finally found Eden, and now that he had, his brother was no where near him and Eden wasn't the paradise he thought it would be and was, in fact, another level of the hell he'd existed in for so long that he could no longer remember just how long it had really been and it hurt to see the last of his dreams finally crumble and die and he wanted his brother to be with him to tell him that it would be all right and not to worry because he would always be there, but he wasn't and that was just too much for his battered heart to take and so he sat in the dust beneath the creaking, swaying sign, staring up at it and he cried.  Once again his lips formed as he fought to push the word out through his parched and raw throat, his mind focusing on the one thing he longed for the most now in his shattered world, the one person who could make everything right again, and so, with much effort and through his tears and though he knew the people hovering around him wouldn't understand, wouldn't know of whom he spoke, he still staid it anyway, in a hoarse, dry whisper.  "I want my brother."  He blinked and looked around at the faces of the people surrounding him, their voices mingling, mixing, unintelligible, but still concerned as he made out one question that they were asking, one very, all important question, of who his brother was and did he live in Eden.  He smiled and fell back against the hot sand and stared up into the blue sky with the hot suns and listened to the sign creak in the harsh wind.  "Vash…where are you?"  He whispered as he closed his eyes and allowed his mind to sink into the comforting black oblivion of unconsciousness as he sent the same call out through the only link he still had with the brother he loved so much that it hurt every time he thought of him and smiled some more when he actually, against all odds, received a reply.

    _I am here…always here…you only had to call…_

****~****

**End**


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